


fight/flight

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-06
Updated: 2006-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They make it back to Atlantis in one piece, one piece with a million stress fractures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fight/flight

They make it back to Atlantis in one piece, one piece with a million stress fractures.

The 'jumper's autopilot kicks in, brings them up to the bay. John lets go of the controls and turns to Rodney, blinks, still sees the pulses of light coloring the backs of his eyelids, Arcturus destroying everything and leaving nothing. Rodney looks at John like he knew he could do it, like he never thought they were in any real danger – nothing like the look he gave him not less than five minutes ago in that expansive lab, three-quarters _"Oh God, oh God, we're gonna die"_ and one-quarter _"I just really fucked up, didn't I?"_.

It's even less like the look he gave him not more than five hours ago in Rodney's cluttered quarters, mouths slick and wet with each other, five-sixths _"Oh God, oh God, I'm gonna die"_ and one-sixth _"I just really fucked you, didn't I?"_

John lets Elizabeth pull Rodney away, the edges of her voice already cutting swaths across the room. Rodney tenses up, gets defensive almost immediately, and John doesn't want to hear it, can't stomach it, wants to scream, _"She's right, do you have any idea what you just did?!"_

With a sickening lurch, he realizes he doesn't want to hear Rodney's response.

*

He leaves the 'jumper bay, finally, his knees like jelly and skin drawn tight, walks until he's at the training room. Carson had gotten him to promise to stop by the infirmary "quite soon," but John's skin is crawling and his heart is beating too fast and he just needs to _move_. He unzips his vest and takes off his weapons, stows it all in his locker. A beat, and John keys off his headset, too, yanking it off his ear and leaving it with his vest.

He focuses on the business of finding something large and unmoving to hit repeatedly.

*

John finds just what he's looking for in the man beating the crap out of a jury-rigged weight bag.

Ronon Dex is a soldier without an army, but not without a war. He's a dirty fighter, years of guerrilla warfare and running to sustain him, always looking ahead, never looking behind. And that's the difference between Dex and him – John's always looking behind, trying to see where he went wrong so _it never happens again._ This time he didn't look back, though, only thought of the future, ignored his gut in favor of friendship.

All it got them was a solar system's worth of dust, and he's not sure he can ever look at Rodney again without wanting to shake him.

They make small talk ("Wanna spar?" "Yeah." "Pull your punches, I don't want Carson yelling at me." "Your call.") and the floor clears for them, Marines lined up around the edge of practice mat making quiet bets. John pretends not to see the press of hands, doesn't want to hear their whispered words ("Shep's gonna get _creamed!"_ ), really just wants to fight.

John holds his own for a few rounds, uses his speed and size, starts to feel out the larger man's abilities. Ronon could kill him, John knows this, so he tries to keep his parries quick, concentrate on the defensive. He actually lands a punch, right across his opponent's jaw. John smiles at the audience, eyes off the prize for a second and of course he hits the floor, catches a flash of Ronon's teeth bared into a smile. There's a beat, and John rattles the clouds out of his head, pants until there's enough oxygen to _breathe_ and push away. Ronon squints down at John, offers him an arm up. John takes it.

Once John's vertical, he nods, the unspoken language of backslaps and grunts similar enough in both galaxies. Ronon goes back to pummeling the weight bag, none of the others stupid enough to take him on, not after he just brought down their commanding officer. John collects his things, his fight response somewhat dulled, flight kicking in when he turns on his ear piece and Rodney's voice cuts in almost immediately. John winces, turns it off again, shoves it in his pocket. He leaves the gym, heads for his room the long way, hopes to find some peace and quiet.

*

Rodney finds him instead, and John executes the quickest about-face he's done since the Academy, shoulders set and eyes trained directly ahead. Shitty form, really, but that's not the point.

"Oh, Colonel, Colonel, I've been looking all over for you."

Always the good soldier, John tries to know the nearest method of egress at all times. In this case, escape is just a few footfalls away thanks to an empty transporter, but Rodney wants to talk, wants to _apologize,_ and it's not like John didn't see this coming from the beginning – he did.

He turns, his arms crossing over his chest. "I heard." He didn't, really, just figured Rodney would have bugged just about everyone when he refused to answer his hails.

"Oh, I suppose I deserve that." Rodney's face crumples, just a bit. "Look, I just, um, I wanted to apologize about what happened. I was wrong -- I'm sorry. And I wanted to assure you that, uh, I intend not being right again -- about everything, effective immediately." Rodney pauses and John wants to laugh, thinks he would in other circumstances. But it's not like Rodney would apologize under any other. "That was a joke."

"Good one," John says, attempts escape again, but Rodney rattles on about Elizabeth and Radek and Caldwell, and then it's about him, about _them._

"At the very least, I hope I can earn that back," Rodney finishes, the words about faith and trust, and John's just trying to get away, trying to make it stop.

John's stomach twists and he says something that sounds an awful lot like, "That may take a while," and John watches Rodney's face fall. He steps back into the transporter, tells Rodney he can try, forces a smile because it's familiar. A molar cuts into his tongue, blood welling in his mouth and the doors slip shut, framing Rodney's answering smile.

The transporting whooshes John away, the taste of Rodney's relief copper-bright on his tongue. He blinks and the doors open, and he steps into an empty hallway.

He _trusted_ Rodney, trusted Rodney more than he trusted his gut, _took a fucking chance_ on the unfamiliar, and look where that had them all end up.

 _Fucking nowhere_ , he thinks, and takes off down the hall.

*

The doors to his quarters slide open with a sigh, lights slowly flickering to life. John huffs through the opening, slaps it closed, undresses hurriedly, leaves his clothing where it falls. The shower is hot, too hot, and he welcomes the rake of pins and needles against his back as he presses his forehead against the cool not-quite-tile. There's a beat, a moment he thinks he might have it all under control -- the heat of the water leeching out his anger, his rage swirling down the drain -- but there's something _stuck_ in him. He hums, the sound loud on the exhale of breath, his breath cut off by his fist against the wall, a crack of sound that rubs him raw, leaves him with split knuckles and a hell of a headache.

*

The amount of paperwork involved in the mass destruction of most of a solar system ( _"It was five-sixths!"_ ), not to mention a major weapons platform is staggering. Five minutes in and John's already wishing the Daedalus never showed up, with their regs and their paperwork and their newbies and Caldwell, but, hey, well, you know, fresh coffee and Doritos, and _saving them from the Wraith_ helped. He's wishing he never got out of the shower, just stayed in the spray until the water washed everything away.

He's lost in paragraphs referencing other paragraphs and his door is ding-dong'ing and he's saying "Come in," before he stops to even think about it, because, really, he should know better, because it's going to be one of two people and, of course, it's--

"So, what do I have to do to earn your trust back?" John looks over his shoulder to see Rodney fiddling with the hem of his shirt, eyes looking everywhere but _here._ The door slides shut softly behind him, leaving them cut off and alone.

"You're kidding, right?" John curls his fingers around the clutch of papers, feels the edges cut into his palms. Water from his hair trickles down the back of his neck, gets swallowed up by the collar of his tee shirt. There's a beat and Rodney just looks at him expectantly, and no, he's not kidding, of course he's not kidding. "Christ, it's not qualifiable, McKay," John says, flinging the papers across his desk, standing and crossing the room with long strides.

John feels Rodney watch him, sees him turn with the movement. Rodney tilts his head, hands out, fingers reaching for a datapad that isn't there, something, _anything,_ to help him figure out the equation of forgiveness. He gives up, clasps his hands behind his back. "Well, then, how many times to I have to say I'm sorry—" there's a beat, a moment where Rodney rocks back onto his heels and almost smirks. "No, seriously, is it something like 42—"

John palms the door open, the slap of skin on metal cutting Rodney's words short. "It's not quantifiable, either." He steps away, concentrates of the curve of the room above Rodney's head, where the wall meets the ceiling. John's arms cross tightly over his chest, his fingers cold against the rush of warmth just under his tee shirt. He thinks very carefully about loads of things that have nothing to do with Rodney. ( _"Oh God, oh God, I'm gonna die, don't stop."_ ) Loads of things being very much nothing at all.

"What—" Rodney start-stops, fingers lax against his thighs, bravado slowly draining from his face.

John looks at him, carefully, thinks maybe Rodney's finally getting it, counts to some ridiculously high number before he speaks, pushes away everything he doesn't want to remember ( _"I can **do** this."_ ) and the things he needs to forget ( _" I fucking love **you,** love this, love us."_ ).

"Good night, Rodney."

And Rodney's eyes widen, just a little, just enough to make the breath in John's throat catch, crash inside his chest on the rebound. "Oh," he says, and John closes his eyes, doesn't bother to watch Rodney walking away.

*

The next day he's fine, no really, fine, does his job, fills out forms, gets his ass kicked by Marines half his age, resorts to dirty play to make them fall to the floor. Lorne wisely gives up his turn, and John almost smiles at the laughter shaking the major's shoulder.

Two Marines and a dozen bruises later, John agrees they should probably get some chow, and they hit the showers, sluicing water all over the place in their rush. They head to the mess hall in a riotous clump, hair damp and dripping on their shoulders. Elizabeth's going out just as they're going in. She crinkles her nose, but not unkindly, as she tugs him from the crowd. She reminds him that Teyla is going to the mainline for a cultural gathering, and "you are to accompany her and her guest." He nods, promises her he'll be presentable in time.

She waits, looks at him, diplomat-cool and more than a little tired. John's been trained to withstand torture, to spit out his name, rank, and serial number until he's catatonic, but nothing ever prepared him for _her_ \-- always one step ahead, waiting for him to say something she already knows.

(He thinks he wasn't prepared for a lot when he flipped a coin and said _"Yes, fine, okay,"_ and stepped _away_ from everything he's ever known and _toward_ nothing he could have ever imagined.)

On another day, a good day, he might humor her, but not today. Today is nothing but good, creeping around the city and keeping distances he never thought he would have to measure. "Anything else?" he asks, and she lets her fingers fall from his arm, the line of her nails catching on his skin.

"No," she says. "No, I don't think so."

*

He eats standing up, argues with Bates about something or other, and then heads back to his quarters, showers, suits up. There's a meeting, and then the armory inspection, and then even _another_ meeting, and then, finally, there's flying.

Teyla meets him in the 'jumper bay, her arm supporting an older woman.

"Charin, you remember John." Teyla smiles up at him as the woman crows in the affirmative, takes his outstretched hand. They both help her up into the 'jumper, John hovering with nervous hands as Teyla settles their guest into a seat, finally lowering herself to the copilots chair with a small smile. She doesn't say a word, her hand on his arm speaking volumes. _I am here for you if you wish it,_ it says, and John cuts her off with a quick almost-smile, slides his arm away from her, the connection broken as they leave the bay.

John glides his hands over the controls, takes them a little too close to the ocean spray, thrills a bit at the flutter in his stomach, almost apologizes to his passengers.

But then Charin laughs, a delightfully creaking sound, her voice filling the 'jumper, _"This is a wonderful craft,"_ and John really smiles then, finally, and accepts the press of Teyla's hand on his shoulder for what it is – _support._

*

He eats standing up, again, back to the party, humoring the kids who are "standing watch" with him just outside the trading tent. One of the teenagers brings him tea, stammers out that she did not add sweetness, as she had heard he enjoyed it brewed true. He nods, sips at the steaming cup, expresses his thanks, making her blush. Catcalls from the copse of trees ring out across the clearing. She nods, bows a bit, bites her lip to keep from smiling and tears off toward the sound, shouting something that if he were the kids in the trees, he'd keep hiding, too.

*

It's late, dark and quiet when they load up the 'jumper, Teyla's arms loose with wine and eyes bright with the promise of a good deed done. John offers to go back alone so Teyla can stick around, but she waves him off, wraps her scarves around her shoulders and extricates herself from the clutch of half-asleep children enamored with Charin's stories of great friends turned formidable foes, extraordinary dangers around ordinary corners.

"The kids seemed to have fun tonight," John says to Teyla much later, after the 'gate is quiet, the city settling down for the night. He walks her to her door. It's late, and he's a gentleman. Kind of.

"They enjoy Charin's stories, her--" she pauses, looks for the right word. "Perspective. It is familiar to them."

"And mine-- our perspective…isn't." John remembers telling the kids about bogey men and hockey masks and he suddenly feels very foolish.

"No, it is not." She hums thoughtfully, her feet stilling in front of her rooms. Her doors slide open. "However," she says, turning to lay her hands on his arms. He leans in instinctively, presses his forehead to hers, her words close in the dim hallway. "That is not always a bad thing. Thank you for accompanying me this evening."

"The pleasure was all mine," he says as they pull apart and she disappears into her dark room with a warm smile. He walks back to his room, uses some of her borrowed strength for the journey.

*

That night John lays in bed and wonders if he's been deluding himself for the better part of two years, a slave to a perspective he created for himself, just seeing what he wanted to see, not what was really there.

He thinks he knows something about being selfless, sacrificing for the greater good -- years of his life given into service; shrapnel taken for his fellow man; near court-martial because he went with his gut, thought he was doing the right thing.

But now, he thinks that maybe he knows nothing about sacrifice, maybe it's all selfish bullshit, rolling with the punches and just reacting to the world around him, letting everyone _take_ and somehow tricking himself into thinking he's _giving._

His balance is off and he's not sure how to right it.

*

The next day John's thrumming along on the edge of _something,_ the ocean dark and dangerous outside, battering the South Pier, flooding certain areas of the city and causing everything to smell just a bit wrong. Boots squeak against the floor, static snaps when people touch, and John watches Rodney squish across the room, plastic poncho ripped to shreds by the wind, face red and pained, and John feels like his fingers will never get warm again.

*

Radek explains it all in common terms, and John does his best to keep his eyes focused on the flash of the Czech scientist's glasses while Rodney does his best to keep his mouth shut.

"In short, we may a problem." Radek finishes with an understated flourish, his hands resting on the table. He turns his head and looks at Rodney. "Rodney, waiting to speak isn’t the same as listening."

"Oh, just, just—" Rodney cuts him off with a flutter of fingers, pushing up and away from the table. "Let me think."

The room is quiet, Elizabeth sliding paper against paper as she looks at the plans. John thinks this might be the longest silence in the history of Being in the Same Room as Rodney McKay. 'Course, there's no way to know for sure, and now Rodney's talking again, pointing out the flaw _("No, no, not flaw, just, just, oh, I don't know, a foible, maybe." "Maths is not a sitcom, Rodney.")_ in the calculation, and all John knows is that he doesn’t have to stick around and he gets up to leave, but not before Rodney's hand brushes against his arm.

"Colonel," Rodney asks, evanescent with excitement now. John knows if this was a cartoon, Rodney would have numbers flying around his head in a halo by now. "I could use your help, might need a 'jumper pilot—"

"I'll get Jameson on it." John slides out from underneath Rodney's grip, doesn't flinch when fingertips touch the back of his hand, but leaves the room anyway.

*

The flooding is finally under control and John is as off duty as it gets in Atlantis, which means he's got his boots off, but his socks on.

The door sounds three times before John shouts, "Busy!", hopes that gets whoever it is to _go away._ It's been three days since Rodney almost killed them and he's just starting to relax enough so he doesn't jump at the lightening streaking down around the city.

And it's quiet for a handful of moments, but there's no telltale sound of footsteps disappearing.

The door opens without a sound, and John tenses, reaches for the sidearm he has jury-rigged to the small table near his bed. The shadowed shape in the hallway resolves into Rodney, hands full of wires, a datapad cradled against his chest.

"Christ, Rodney." John relaxes against the bed, drops the gun, and sighs. Rodney tilts his chin in greeting. "I could have been," he drops his voice, looks around, even though it's his own room, -- yes he's knows he's ridiculous -- "busy."

"Oh, ah, but you're not, you're just." Rodney clears his throat, juggles his armfuls of _stuff_ , licks his lips and tries not to drop anything. "Sitting."

"Busy _sitting,_ " John shoots back, drops his eyes back down to his book _(Page 19, far _out._ )_, palms his gun and slides it back into the holster by touch. "See you later."

"Gah—you--" Rodney splutters, stepping into the room and letting the doors slide shut.

"This is not 'later,'" John doesn't even bother to look up from his book, fingers the corner of the page, notices that Anna Pavlovna is having just as hard of a time with unwanted guests as he is.

"John, just—"

"Rodney, I mean it."

"You can't be serious—"

"I can and I am." John looks up, book forgotten on his lap. Rodney flinches a bit, eyes flickering down to John's hands on the book. John looks down, notices he's twisting the thick binding a bit, the creased paper snapping. He tucks the book under his pillow, hopes the pages will go back to a natural state on their own.

Rodney's still standing there, mouth open and slack, and John gives, just a little bit.

"What?" John asks, and it's _him,_ not this bewildered and pissed-off person he's been carrying around for days. "Rodney, what?"

"Oh, I just, well, nothing, if you're still upset or something—" Rodney's talking again, quickly, too quickly for John to keep up.

John flashes back to the base, remembers the rush of blood, the way his fingers clenched and pounded against the table, how the computer skittered on the smooth surface, how Rodney _didn't even flinch._

He's up and across the room in one smooth motion, Rodney close enough to smell, if he was into that kind of thing. He might be, because Rodney smells like coffee and warm metal and maybe just a bit like singed hair. (John sniffs, and Rodney mumbles. _"The door, um, kind of shocked me."_ ). John settles his hands on Rodney's hips, presses him against the wall firmly, lets Rodney's armload of breaking-and-entering materials slide between them, harsh corners pressing into the soft of their stomachs.

They're close enough that John feels the breath catch in Rodney's chest, close enough to press his hips against Rodney's. Close enough to keep Rodney in place as John's fingers make quick work of divesting Rodney of his gear, carefully laying the equipment out of reach. Rodney twitches, tries to argue with clutching fingers, but John pushes back with every movement, the press of his thigh between Rodney's legs.

"I trusted you," John whispers, leaning in to press the words against Rodney's ear, hands on his arms. "You _used_ me. Of course I'm still upset. I would die for you, Rodney, but I won't die _because of you._ "

Rodney flinches now, breath choked in his throat, and John can feel him go suddenly -- _finally_ \-- still, hands settling on John's waist.

"You didn't listen, you just—" John's fingers creep up Rodney's arms, hook around the curve of his shoulders and squeeze. "Take, Rodney, you _took_ from me, from all of us, you nearly killed us both. We-- _you_ could have died and--" The words die in his throat and he closes his eyes, inhales sharply. "Don't fucking do it again."

There's a beat, and Rodney slumps against him, lips on John's neck, his back skidding down the wall a bit. _"Okay, okay, I won't, I'm sorry, I am,"_ he murmurs, a litany of apology painting John's skin, the shudder of his chest telegraphing his grief to John, each exhale like a sob.

John's grip softens, the fight draining out of him as his palms skim over Rodney's back, pulling him upright and into a proper embrace. Rodney lets him, clutches a bit, fingers pulling on John's tee shirt until they're face to face.

Rodney looks and John blinks and there's a cacophony of _"I'm sorry,"_ and _"You better be,"_ a wet slide of lips and the shock of bared teeth, _"I am, I am,"_ and _"Oh God, oh God, we almost died,"_ the pull of fabric and the soft press of skin, _"I almost really fucked this up, didn't I?"_ and _"Yes."_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note:** This story refused to die. And then it just sat there taunting me for ages. I just needed to excise it. Or exorcise it. Not sure yet. I thank everyone who looked at it in its varying stages: [](http://wyoluvr.livejournal.com/profile)[**wyoluvr**](http://wyoluvr.livejournal.com/), [](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/profile)[**minervacat**](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/), [](http://cincodemaygirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**cincodemaygirl**](http://cincodemaygirl.livejournal.com/), [](http://lierdumoa.livejournal.com/profile)[**lierdumoa**](http://lierdumoa.livejournal.com/), just to name a few. Thank you for your help, darlings. All problems that remain are my own. And maybe McKay's, because I just feel like blaming that smarty-trousers for something.
> 
>  _who are you to wave your finger / you must have been out of your head - tool_


End file.
